DemiurgeTraumatic cycleBeyond the pleasure principleRepetitionCan’t you hear them screaming. Underneath the pavement they are still screamingBeneath the street the beachThe beach beneath the beachUnder the seaDrexciyaAlien nation

O little Panopticon town of Bethlehem
Where Charity stands watching
And faith holds wide the door
Like Maggie Smith says about a penis
It’s a perfectly fine thing for one to have
But wave it in my face and we have a problem.
Or, otherwise, as Mudhoney sang
They say you got it
I’ll say you got it
You got it
You got it good
You got it
You can keep it
That’s right
I don’t want it
You give it away like free samples
But I don’t want what anyone can have
You got it
Yeah, you got it
So what?
Keep it outta my face.
And so finally, as Larry Grayson said on Family Fortunes,
Shut that door!
Were you born in a barn?
We have our own household wealth
We have our own Lares
And like 5,000 years of David Graeber’s Debt
Since the time of Gilgamesh
We can’t afford the emotional fee
Of expected discipline and renunciation
To an illegitimate authoritarian concept of Other in crisis
A judgmental focus so antipathetic to good attachment
That one can never be good enough
For the illegitmitate sin of merely being fallible
That it’s more like a Gargamel.
LIke a Karpman Drama
A Leviticus denial of Greek tragedy
You try to oust me like Azazel
And attack and judge us
For saying no to your rescuing.
It has already damaged the earth of the mother of my children
And so this household’s law of this father
Won’t let it damage my progeny
Unlike a bitter pill
It’s not ironic, it’s symbolic
We please Demeter
But we never metaphor!

With her eyes raised
to God,
she was not impressed
with his wry Baldrick.
She liked neither
Black Adder
nor Black Jesus.
But wry Baldrick
said unto him
Esu now long fella.
She is but
an erotophobic vampire,
a Grand Inquisitor
beseeching her
preaching brother
to carry ma’s off
to the pearly white gates,
God’s teeth!
The gate in
the white picket fence,
trying to enclose
Baba Yaga’s hut
in, a love of, order to
stop her chicken drumsticks
from keeping on keeping on
moving
don’t stop, no.
She wants her love
to bathe us
in the light as a pearl-feather,
putting a small pox
on our wake
in dreams.
But she is afear’d
of the T-Bone stake
so she wants Trump
to drain the swamp.
But the man grove
loves the salt
(doesn’t hurt
unless you’re already
whipped raw)
water that breeds
the crocodile,
going Tik Tok,
the coloured maroon,
cumming for her
Captive Hook.
So the mumbo jumbo
will carry on
moaning and groaning
despite her.

The tyranny of conscience
stems form
the failure of the charist to heal themselves.
And therein lies a contradiction.
The preservation of which is is a spiritual plateau
Where everything is true
And nothing is permitted
An aporic koan
Based on contradictions in Entäusserung

In zen
There is a koan
A double bind
Where the master holds a stick over his student’s head.
He says
“If you move I will hit you.
If you don’t move I will also hit you.”
The enlightened student refuses his master this right
And moves the stick away and stands up.

One should be able to stand up
And say, “I do not need healing”

The tyrant refuses to move the stick.
The poisoned charist.
The original sin.

In such a situation.
There is no alternative
But to fight.
All other roads
Are shut off.